Meredith casually slipped her arms through the sleeves of her gown as if she were donning a bonnet instead of covering her breasts. The marquess’s eyes remained on her face. Once she felt her breathing was under control, she asked, “Why did you really ask me in here tonight?”
“I wanted to remind you that you are still my wife.”
“How presumptuous of you, my lord.” She swallowed back her angry retort. “I was not the one who had forgotten.”
She turned on her heel and headed for her room, pausing only to slam the door resolutely shut as she left.
The harsh sound echoed through the chamber. Trevor swallowed back the thickness in his throat, determined not to give in to his emotions. The ache in his groin was an acute pain. His erection was hard and swollen and pressing against the fastenings of his breeches. He could barely shift in the chair without feeling a burst of discomfort.
He had not handled that at all well, certainly not as he intended. She did not understand why he had sent her away. Misleading Meredith was not his aim, yet he was not up to explaining. That exhilarating sexual encounter they had just shared had drained his energy, weakened his resolve, and left him aching and slightly confused.
It was very plain she thought he had rejected her, and he supposed on the surface that was partially true. Though he desired her greatly, more than any woman of recent memory actually, Trevor was determined not to use her body, even though she was his wife.
He had more respect, more regard for her. He knew what she wanted from him. Love, devotion, fidelity. Trevor smiled and reached for the goblet of brandy he had set aside earlier. Perhaps the alcohol would help take the edge off his discomfort. He took a long sip, then smiled again.
How ironic. Of the three, love, devotion, and fidelity, the only one he felt capable of providing to his wife was fidelity—a lowly state of affairs for a confirmed rake.
Life had settled into a pattern that was not much different than before he married. He had the same friends, same club, same late hours, same drinking, same wagering, same reckless fun.
One notable exception was the lack of females in his bed. Though he insisted to himself it was not because of any chivalrous sense of duty, Trevor found the idea of breaking his vow of fidelity repugnant.
If he were incapable of giving Meredith what she truly desired, the least he could do was be faithful to her. Tonight he had wanted to discuss moving to a new London residence, a town house his secretary had located, with Meredith. Perhaps if he were away from so many reminders of Lavinia, he could find his way in this new marriage.
Yet the moment he had seen the flare of passion glaze Meredith’s eyes, he knew living in these apartments of his father’s house was not the problem. The memories of Lavinia, the life and the love they had shared and the unquestioning pain and despair he had suffered at her death would follow him wherever they lived.
And thus was the crux of his torment.
Twelve
The marquess suspected there might be dramatics and even tears to contend with at breakfast the next morning. But he never thought they would be coming from the usually composed housekeeper, Mrs. Pritcher.
As Trevor entered the dining room, he found the housekeeper sitting at the table, hunched over and sobbing into a crumpled square of white linen. Meredith stood beside the servant, her hand resting solicitously on the older woman’s shoulder.
“What has happened?” Trevor asked.
Both women turned to him in surprise.
“My lord!” Mrs. Pritcher made a move to rise from the chair, but Meredith’s hand pressed down on her shoulder.
“Mrs. Pritcher has received some terrible news this morning,” Meredith said. “Her niece, her sister’s oldest daughter, has died most suddenly.”
“Such a lovely creature she was, too.” Mrs. Pritcher blew her nose loudly into the handkerchief. “Only seventeen years old and pretty as a picture. I don’t know how my sister will manage without her. It breaks my heart just to think of it.”
Mrs. Pritcher pressed the linen to her trembling lips and began to weep again.
“You have our deepest sympathies, Mrs. Pritcher,” Trevor said helplessly. Emotional women were hardly his forte, especially older women.
“You are too kind, my lord,” Mrs. Pritcher said with a sniff. “And my lady, too.”
“Dear Mrs. Pritcher.” Meredith patted the housekeeper’s shoulder. “How I wish there was more we could do to ease your suffering.” She turned to Trevor. “I was just telling Mrs. Pritcher she should take the day off and go to her sister’s home at once. A family needs to be together at such a difficult time.”
“Yes, of course.” Trevor nodded his head vigorously. “Where does your sister live?”
“Here, in town, near Hampstead.”
“Then there is no need to delay your departure—though it would probably be best if you took someone with you.” The marquess looked at the frightened young faces of the two serving maids who had crept into the room and concluded they would be of little help.
There were no other female senior members of the staff. Perhaps Meredith’s maid could be of help, but she barely knew Mrs. Pritcher. “Since I insist you do not go alone, Lady Meredith and I shall escort you to your sister’s home, as soon as you are composed and feel ready to make the journey.”
